Suicide is Painless
by Noir1
Summary: The Last Moments of One of Raccoon's Anonymous Victims


Author's Notes: I wrote this on a whim after listing to Johnny Mandel's "Suicide is Painless" about thirty times... I hope you enjoy it, in spite of the horribly depressing theme.  
  
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, or at the insistence of an authorized legal representative, I shall immediately remove this from fanfiction.net.  
  
Suicide is Painless  
  
Deafening, roaring gunfire filled his ears, staccato crackles of machineguns and the louder, stilted booms of heavier guns blending into an indecipherable dyne. His eyes, apparently open and alert, saw nothing; the glossy, vacuous green orbs merely gazed blankly out at the dingy, bloodstained world surrounding him. His calm, languid breathing was frighteningly natural in the apocalypse that threatened to engulf the world that he once knew; the horrified shrieking and anguished cries of the dying that was all-consuming had left him hard and impenetrable, the only indication of awareness the periodic twitching of his fingers around the cold, weighty steel of his gun.  
  
He coolly reflected that he had once been those that still scurried in and out of the crumbling, burning buildings that lay outside his bastion, fervently seeking someone whom he might recognize; the futile desire to rejoin with one's own family and friends overwhelming reason and logic, and even self-preservation. That was gone now, cast aside in the sound and fury of a dwindling life; the once-searing flame of his spirit had been extinguished in the span of only days, quashed by blood and hatred.  
  
The chilly metal that he clasped like a drowning man's life-preserver was showered with drying specks of dark crimson, the barrel black as coal from the constant use. Notches and gauges were readily apparent, evidence of so many drops and failures; it was almost a synopsis of its possessor's life, rife with pits and tears, so many seemingly insignificant, superficial wounds driving the tender spirit to a cold, unfeeling steel refuge; only the hateful, lethal innards remained intact, ready to strike out at anyone without provocation.  
  
Slowly, he lowered his gaze to the gore-drenched and tattered uniform that he once cherished, his eyes scanning the invisible marks that his loved ones had once made. The rent chest held a single word, the only evidence of the man he had once been.  
  
"Anderson," he croaked, his voice dry and lifeless; it sounded as though it had never been used, his own inflection foreign. He was an alien in his own body, his awareness retreating to the calming vestiges of his animal instincts.  
  
He had run, screaming and howling with anger and resentful sadness, from the shelter that he had promised never to leave. Life suddenly, briefly returned to the dull spheres of his chilled green eyes as he remembered.  
  
He had barricaded the only person whom he had trusted, his wife, in their home; he thought that they would be safe from the heinous masses of mindless, decaying bodies that wondered the crumbling streets of his city. He had been wrong.  
  
Only days after the supposed 'riots' began, the gangrenous, decomposing monstrosities dominated their once-bustling metropolis; sprawling industrial and residential sectors had been laid to waste by monster and human alike in their struggle for dominance, the shattered façade of buildings and the rubble strewn about the streets now the only evidence of what had transpired during those fraught times. The only noise that pervaded the vacant corridors and avenues of their proud town was the empty and pining whines of the undead, the slow, deliberate shuffle of their bloody and swollen limbs.  
  
He and his family had been some of the few holdouts to not retreat to the promised fortress of the police department that hung menacingly on the horizon like a medieval castle. Their windows and doors had been barricaded, every crack sealed against an invasion by the unseen menace that lurked outside. They had tried to eek out a meager existence, intently hoping that the military or police forces would come to rescue them from the brewing hell that festered beyond their own private bastion. But it never came.  
  
Soon, his wife began to fall ill. A small rodent had been their downfall, the hissing, red-eyed beast felling his last reasons for life with a quick, lancing bite. The interloper had been crushed mercilessly, angrily beneath a heavy combat boot, but it was too late. Soon, the beautiful woman that he had cherished started to falter; her stunning, tanned complexion became a sickly pallor, lithe, agile legs stumbling and wavering with every step. Her health gave out entirely, but she quickly arose again as his worst nightmare. He had awoken one night to hear a low, agonized cry coming from his wife's self-declared 'sick room'; she had still held onto the hope that it wouldn't take her, too.  
  
He hesitantly had climbed the stairs, his body quaking with every step with the mounting dread that the only person he'd truly loved might be one of those hideous abominations. He didn't need to wait long for confirmation, as he heard the distinct, scuffing shamble of the dragging of dead weight across their wooden floor. She crept into view, mouth gaping and expressionless; her sharp, expressive black eyes had become brainless, cataract-ridden gray windows to a soulless form. He had stopped, fervently pleading for anyone to answer his prayer for this to be an awful nightmare; the keening, dry groan from his wife was his only reply.  
  
He had falteringly raised the too-heavy mass of his pistol in limp hands, distraughtly aiming the quivering blade of the sight at her once- magnificent face. Closing his eyes, he had steeled himself, ridding himself of all sentiment, and drew back the trigger; a blast of red-hot fury burst from the deadly piece of metal, and he could only imagine the bullet as it tore through her deadened visage, mutilating degenerating flesh and bone as it completed its awful journey. After that, nothing had mattered to him. So many more wives, daughters, husbands, sons, fathers, and mothers had crumpled before his emotionless, now-unwavering hand.  
  
A small bead of moisture bled from his dirty, soot and blood- encrusted face; it traced a trail through the grime and grit, exposing the pure white of his skin. It was too much for him to bear, and, his eyes closed, he raised the weapon that had been used to seal the fate on his spirit to his temple. The barrel scraped his unclean face, but the pain escaped him; he didn't even think of it as he began to pull the trigger. His only thoughts were of the life he would be gaining, not the hellish existence he would be losing by that one action.  
  
He didn't utter a single word before a lion's growl crackled from the gun's soiled, gaping barrel; he was at peace, the pain finally having gone. 


End file.
